Unmask (How Fragile We Are)
by Shades0fCool
Summary: Wade using Peter's apartment as his own personal sick bay turns into something more. Much more.
1. Things You Do

_ Fucking finally_.

After tossing and turning for what feels like the better part of eternity, Peter has finally managed to fall into an almost decent kind of sleep. If one discounts the recurring nightmares, PTSD, waking up screaming and bathed in sweat, that is, because that's Peter's version of decent. Anyway, the point is, he's asleep—or as close as he's going to get these days—and all it took to make it happen was spending three nights in a row out on the hunt for Vulture and his henchmen, and then battling all of them.

At once.

If there's one thing Peter sucks at, it's taking care of himself, especially where his sleep routine is concerned, and—_surprise_—it's starting to show. He's gotten sloppy during fights, sustained injuries that could have been avoided. It had only been a matter of time until things would come to a head, and then bingo, turning point unlocked. He'd uselessly stumbled into an attack he'd have usually seen coming from a mile away, resulting in a cut the size of Avengers Tower on his chest and yet another disposal of one of his precious suits. On his way home from Central Park, he'd almost swung headfirst into a solid brick wall (twice), then dozed off in the middle of crawling up the wall to his apartment, so yeah—he figures it's probably high time he get some much-needed shut-eye to refuel his batteries.

He's in the middle of doing his habitual almost-but-not-quite-sleeping, when his Spider senses tingle and there's a faint scratching against his window. Where his usual, superhero-y self would be up and ready to fight in a heartbeat, his hopelessly exhausted self takes a full minute to even move a damn muscle, just long enough for it to be too late. The window slides open and there's a loud _thunk_ when something hits the floor below the windowpane.

Peter holds his breath. Please let it be something harmless, like . . . a cat. A highly intelligent cat who's able to climb thirty-two stories and hoist windows.

"Heya, Petey! How's it hangin'?"

Okay, yeah. That's not a cat. Wade might have certain characteristics of a cat down—namely, the asshole part of one—but he's decidedly not as fluffy.

Peter would have groaned if he'd had the energy. As it is, he barely conjures enough of his depleted energy reserves to blink open an eye.

Only to regret it about 0.01 seconds later.

For some inexplicable, undoubtedly outrageous reason, Wade isn't wearing pants. There's also the tail end of a hunting knife sticking out of his chest. It's the knife that gets Peter to sit up, despite the fact that every last bone in his body is screaming at him to stay down.

"Wade? Oh my god, there's a knife—"

"—in my chest, yes." He waves a hand through the air as if it's nothing and okay, this is Wade, but still. "This cute little addition to my collection has proven to be extremely useful."

Peter gapes at him. It's only now that he's looking properly that he notices a takeout bag from Leo's dangling from the knife. What the hell?

"Wade, how—"

"—_amazing _is that, right?" Wade gushes. What also gushes is the freaking _stab wound _in his chest. Peter's twitching with the urge to get over there and help. He's _always _twitching with the urge to help, no matter how many times Wade ends up on his doorstep all battered and bruised, barely breathing and slowly fading away. So okay, this might be Deadpool and fine, he might be immortal. There's nothing he can't come back from, at least nothing they know of, but just. Just no. Peter will never get over witnessing Wade bleeding out while the only thing he can do is _no_thing. It's not going to happen, no matter how many times Wade tells him "not to sweat it".

"Credit where credit's due though, it wasn't my idea," Wade continues. "I was getting your favorite pizza, you know, from this place downtown? So yeah, I ran into Shocker and guess what? He was nice enough to pin this take out bag right here to my chest with his knife so I'd have both hands free to kick his ass. God, he's so considerate sometimes, isn't he? Anyway, here's pizza!"

It's easy being fooled by Wade's cheerful attitude and practically infallible ability to talk a mile a minute. Peter's been there, which is why now, he knows better. Wade's died in the middle of making a crude joke about Peter's butt in Spandex on one occasion, died on Peter's back while they'd swung around SoHo on another. Peter considers himself to be smart enough not to make the same mistakes twice, not if he can help it. So he doesn't.

He folds the blanket back and slides off his bed. His next words come out a little shaky, a tiny bit breathless, it's just that Wade won't stop bleeding and fuck, why won't he stop bleeding?

"Wade, we talked about this, remember? I have trouble making small talk when there's a hole the size of a Double Whopper in your body."

Wade gives Peter a goofy smile, or more like, his mask does, which never fails to weird Peter out. "Gee, one hole you notice about me and then it's not even my best one."

Wade has the nerve to pout and cross his arms, which results in him jostling the knife and groaning in what's undoubtedly pain. Peter didn't know he had an ounce of strength left in his body, but he'd obviously been wrong about that, seeing as he's at Wade's side within a nanosecond flat. One string of web is shot beneath his bed to pull out the first-aid kit—which has become more of a first-aid _duffel _now that Wade keeps dropping by—another to pin Wade's hand to the wall behind him, just so he finally stops messing with the knife.

"Woah, baby boy, all it takes for you to tie me down with that web of yours is being a little roughed up? Damn, you've been holding out on me," Wade drawls.

Peter would love to tackle him for that one, but the truth is, he _is _roughed up, so out of the goodness of his heart, he lets that one pass. The noble gesture would bear way more effect if he would stop grinning. This is really not the time to be weak to Wade's raunchy jokes. The problem is just that Wade is still grinning, which is technically something Peter shouldn't even be able to see with him wearing his mask, but he does and it's hilarious. It must be all the sleep he's _not _getting messing with his head.

"Stop it!" Peter cries. "Stop making me laugh, you're bleeding all over my crappy lino floor and I gotta fix it, so _please_. Behave."

He shakes his head, and the grin finally abates to a smile. There. That's better. Back to work.

Of course, Wade continues whispering horrible pick-up lines and thinly veiled sexual harassment remarks under his breath, but Peter turns a deaf ear for both their sakes and focuses on the task at hand, which is not letting Wade die on his watch.

"You still with me?" Peter asks while he's wrapping Wade's chest in thick bandages.

"Always," Wade says and takes Peter's hand, and okay, wow, that sounded kind of . . . real. As in, not meant as a joke or trying to be funny, but real. _Real _real, and that makes Peter's head go all funny in a way he wishes he could chalk up to the lack of sleep, too.

Wade's breathing has gone from wheezing to panting. Peter wishes he'd take off his mask, just so he can breathe easier. Not because he'd like to see Wade, for the sole reason of seeing him. That would be ridiculous, not to say highly unprofessional. It's just to make sure he's getting enough air.

"Petey," Wade sighs when Peter's fingers flutter over the bandages to make sure the fit isn't too tight. "Have I ever told you that you're the best nurse in the whole world? In a totally non-pervy way. Okay, maybe a little pervy. Like, thirty percent. Eighty."

Peter smiles absentmindedly while he wraps the knife in a paper towel and puts it away. "Yes, you have. It's usually followed by how I'm committing a crime against humanity, which is apparently code for _you _these days, by not wearing a nurse outfit to go with that."

Wade laughs out loud, which immediately winds down to a groan. "Damn right you are. But seriously, I don't know how to thank you. Oh wait, actually, I do. Gonna buy you a nurse outfit in return. With white fishnet stockings. And fully expect you to wear it every day, because you never know when I might be in need of your _invigorating _services."

Peter feels a traitorous blush rise in his cheeks, and God, why is he still doing that? He knows damn well that's just Wade's very blatant way of flirting, there's nothing remotely serious there. It's just that the flirting gets a little sweeter, a little . . . needier, on the days Peter comes to Wade's rescue and lets him sleep off the latest live round of "Dumb Ways to Die" on his couch. And makes him coffee after. Can't forget about the coffee.

Anyway, yeah, the entire flirting business is different when Wade's hurt and Peter takes care of him, but that doesn't make it real. That's just Wade being Wade, and Peter has no idea why he has to remind himself of that. Months of regular meetups for patrol and (thankfully) not-so-regular takedowns of super baddies together—one would think Peter is immune to Wade's constant sweet talk by now, but he really, really isn't.

"Is this a thing now?" Peter asks, biting his lip. "You using my apartment as your own personal sick bay?"

It's only fair to be in the know about what he's getting into, and that's got nothing to do with Wade's being too sweet when he's hurt and everything to do with stocking up on the supplies Wade goes through on the daily.

"I'm not using your apartment as my own personal sick bay," Wade says earnestly. "I'm using you as my own personal nurse. It's about you, Petey. There's a _huge _difference."

Yep, there Peter goes again with the blushing. Jesus Christ. He's just . . . tired. Yeah, that's it. Too tired to deal with things like acting cool and being unaffected and not letting Wade get to him.

Wade's looking up at his face when Peter's done making mental excuses, and Peter just . . . looks back, momentarily speechless for a reason he _swears _he'd known two seconds ago. He can't even see Wade's eyes with him wearing his mask, but he's still looking as if there's an actual chance he might develop X-ray vision if he only stares hard enough.

It's probably a violation of privacy and therefore all kinds of wrong when Peter reaches out and weaves his fingers into the seam on the bottom of Wade's mask. This is the part where Wade's supposed to say something, like _no _or _what the hell, Spidey_, or push Peter's hand away. They have seen each other before when the masks had come off during battles, but always on their own terms. Which means, never for the sake of looking at each other, but more like as a direct consequence of a fight, where tearing suits and breaking masks is a daily occurrence. Peter has never taken Wade's mask off, at least not without his explicit consent, and Wade has always stuck to that boundary in return. Well, he _used_ to stick to it, before he'd randomly started showing up at Peter's apartment for "special treatment". And still, it doesn't change the fact that this right here, where Peter tugs softly on the material covering Wade's face, is uncharted territory. Territory Peter's normal self would never tread into, but since it's already been established that Peter is not his normal self tonight, he doesn't stop. Wasn't there somebody famous who said personalities might be subject to change when suffering from insomnia long enough? That's Peter. Change of personality? It's happening.

"Can I?" he whispers, just shy of breathless. There's a slight tremble in his fingers, and Wade must feel it, because he reaches up and brushes his knuckles over the back of Peter's hand.

"It's a mess under here, baby boy."

Peter's quite sure Wade doesn't realize how much resignation he's letting into his voice, but it's right there, in plain sight.

"Please," Peter says.

Wade sighs. Then he smiles and drops his hand away from Peter's, away from where he could stop him if he wanted to. "There's no universe in which I could ever say no when you gimme those eyes."

Peter doesn't care about the stupidly adoring smile thing his lips do and shuffles closer, his thigh pressing against Wade's. There's heat there, warm and comforting, and Peter smiles wider when he realizes that there's a very good chance tonight won't turn out to be one of those nights where he has to watch Wade bite the dust.

He's bringing his other hand up to join the first, and then he's rolling the mask up and up and _up_, as careful as he can manage, because he knows about Wade's scars and the last thing he wants is hurt him by jumping the gun. And jumping the gun is a very real risk here, now that Peter is a literal moment away from seeing Wade, from looking into his eyes without a mask to obscure them or a fight to steal his attention away.

Peter holds his breath when he gets to that last millimeter, and then Wade's right there, _so close_, eyes screwed shut and teeth worrying his bottom lip enough to leave marks.

Peter runs the pad of his finger down Wade's cheek, a smile in his voice when he says, "Huh. I signed up for the full mutant package, but this model doesn't seem to have any eyes?" he taps a fan of tanned lashes splayed out on Wade's cheekbone. "I want my money back."

The silly joke does the trick. Up to this point, the tension in the air has been thick enough to cut with a knife, but now that Peter hasn't missed a beat, Wade's whole body is relaxing back against the wall he's pressed up against. He's also grinning, which looks downright_incredible _on those full lips of his. Not even his scars can take away from that.

And then there are his eyes, which holy—_wow_.

Peter knows he's staring. He also knows that he'll hate himself for it later, but right now, he couldn't care less about later.

Wade's eyes are gorgeous. Outright stunning. Beautiful. The softest shade of hazel, and are those flecks of—

Wade makes a soft noise in his throat that sounds like a mix of distressed and turned on, which is almost enough to jolt Peter out of the not-so-subtle eyeballing he's doing.

"Petey," he breathes. "You're close. Very, very close, and I'm neither prim nor proper enough not to take advantage of that, so maybe you wanna—yeah, that's . . . Whew, okay."

Peter backs away so fast that he all but crashes into the sofa, his face flushing red-hot, heart hammering against his ribcage.

What is he doing? _Get a damn grip, Parker. _

"S-sorry," he mumbles, eyes fixing on his lap. His lap, which is covered by boxers. _Just _boxers, and why exactly is he only noticing now that he's spent the last hour around Wade in nothing but his underwear?

Wade's apparently thinking along the same lines, and because this situation is far from being awkward enough, Wade calls him on it. "Care to explain your outfit?"

He's snickering. He's also staring. And damn if it doesn't do something to Peter, something he's not ready for, especially not when all he's wearing is one flimsy piece of clothing.

"I was just . . . I was sleeping when you did a B&E on my place, like any normal person does at two thirty in the morning," he says, way too defensive for no reason at all. His gaze drops to Wade's legs, his _bare _legs. He wishes he could help himself. He really does. But Wade's legs are right there, and they are all gorgeous muscles and thick thighs, bare and tucked into tight boxer briefs.

He clears his throat and forces himself to stop staring. "What's your excuse?"

Wade runs his palms over his boxers to smooth them out, and Peter's trying really hard not to follow the motion with his eyes, and even harder not to crawl over there on all fours and take the smoothing out off Wade's hands.

"I lost my pants," Wade says, as if that's a perfectly normal, everyday thing to happen. "And you're staring. You just _love _the boxers, don't you?"

Right. The part where Peter is _not _staring isn't working out too great. About now, it's a good thing that Peter can't physically blush any more than he already has, because he's helpless against sneaking a peek (okay, a pretty _long _peek) at Wade's underwear, which is blue and red and has little Spider-Man figures printed on it.

_ Oh god. _

He's gonna faint. For real. Tonight's the night Wade's finally getting him to swoon. "I can't believe you're wearing, well, _me_. Down there."

"Believe it. I like to keep you close to me at all times. Well, close to the parts that matter."

Wade wiggles his sparse eyebrows for good measure, and Peter hides his face in his hands. At this point, fainting doesn't even seem like such a bad thing.

"Okay, let's just _not_, alright?"

"But—"

"Can you stand?" Peter interrupts before Wade can say something else that gets him just that much closer to a serious case of spontaneous self-combustion.

"Sure can. My third leg, that is. Wanna see?"

"Wade!" Peter squawks. "Stop it! God. I'm nowhere near lucid enough to do this right now."

"My baby boy's touchy today, huh?" Wade says. "I can stand. I think. Do you mind?"

Peter's brain is still hung up on how Wade just called him my baby boy, not the baby boy, but the _my _part of it, to get that Wade's referring to his hand, which is still secured to the wall by a delicate amalgam of Peter's webs.

"Oh! Uh, sorry. Sure." He walks over and kneels next to Wade to tear through the webbing. "Do you need help getting up?"

"No," Wade says and uses the wall for support. As soon as he's upright and lets go, his knees give way and he'd have collapsed like a card house if it weren't for Peter, who's catching him mid-air.

"Okay. Yes. I'll take the help. This time," Wade concedes.

Peter can't suppress a smug smirk. He wraps Wade's arm around his shoulders and tucks his hand into his side to lead him to the bathroom.

"Please don't tell me you need help washing up," Peter says, half-hoping Wade says yes, actually, he _does _need help. He's seen Wade's face, his eyes (damn, _those eyes__)_, and instead of being grateful for small favors like a good boy, he's only curious for more. Who wouldn't want to see the chest that goes with thighs like that?

"Nah, I'm fine," Wade replies. "Unless you want to help, in which case my answer is yes, please, _nurse Petey_. Strip me down. Clean me up. If there is anyone who can scrub off my kinda dirty, it's you."

"O-kay," Peter groans. "Offer retracted." _Ha. No, it's not._

Peter has a sneaking suspicion that there's more to what Wade said about "scrubbing off his kinda dirty", much more, but he bites his tongue and doesn't dig deeper.

"Damn. You can at least stay and watch the show then." Wade's already working on slipping off what remains of his suit, which Peter figures is the show he's referring to, so Peter turns and leaves, closing the bathroom door behind him.

_ What a night. _

He doesn't like how much everything that's happened since Wade's crawled through the window is making him feel. He doesn'tlike how, despite of it, he doesn't want it to _stop_ making him feel how he feels. He's just not himself tonight, and what scares him the most is how good that feels. Goddammit. What he _should_ do is slip back under the covers and spend the rest of the night convincing himself none of this ever happened. But what he _does _do is tiptoe to the bathroom to press his ear up against the door and listen to the shower going inside, wishing he was in there instead of out here.


	2. Alone Together

Wade takes his sweet time. He still hasn't left the bathroom by the time Peter has scarfed down a slice of toast and a glass of water to go with it. The adrenaline is bleeding out of Peter's system now, slowly but surely, which makes room for the exhaustion he's managed so well to rein in. Up until now, that is. His eyes keep fluttering shut and his movements are a far cry from their usual grace as he makes his way into the living room. He gets down on his knees to clean up the mess of blood on the floor, careful not to get any on himself, and pack away the remaining med supplies. When that's done, he walks over to the messy bed and takes a seat. He's only meant to _sit _on the bed and wait until Wade's done and they can exchange a round of the most awkward goodbyes in the history of goodbyes, but all of a sudden, he's lying back and blinking up at the ceiling and the saggy mattress is soft and warm and he's so, so incredibly tired—

"Petey? Hey, baby boy, you asleep?"

There are fingers in Peter's hair, combing through the strands and brushing the tops of his ears. He wants to purr with how good it feels. This week has been less than stellar so far, and this is the first genuinely good thing he's getting out of it. It's only on the really bad days that Peter lets himself remember how much he misses it—being held, being touched. Someone to come home to, someone to fall asleep with. Someone who blocks out the nightmares.

"Mhng," he murmurs.

There's a soft laugh from somewhere close to him. It's such a nice sound. Peter doesn't dare say something coherent, in case that is what makes whatever bubble he's currently in burst and disintegrate, and he really doesn't want that. What he also really doesn't want are those soft, soft touches to stop.

Then Peter feels warm breath against his neck, along with what could be a nose gently bumping his lobe.

"I'm taking off, let you sleep. Thanks for everything." A pause. "I mean it."

Peter's too far gone to know—or care, for that matter—what he's doing. What he does know is that Wade isn't supposed to take off. He can't say how he knows, and yeah okay, granted—there's a slight chance that what is generally _supposed _to is more like what Peter personally _wants _, but right now, Peter's too selfish to make a distinction between the two.

Wade has already turned away from the bed and is heading for the window when he's stopped by another string of webbing around his wrist. Peter thinks he hears him suck in a sharp breath of air before he turns around.

"Pete?" he whispers. There's hope in there, and no, that's not a figment of Peter's (pitifully wishful) imagination this time.

Peter swallows. Is he really going to do this? Asking Wade to stay would mean something. It's crossing a line, Peter's well aware of that, so maybe he should give this more thought, dissect all the possible implications, all the consequences, of which there are undoubtedly _many_, before—

"Stay."

So much for thinking things through. Did he even try? He could say yes, of course he did. He'd not be Peter Parker if he didn't think about his actions, right? Wrong, because in the case at hand, that would only amount to kidding himself.

Wade stares at him. Just stares, without saying a word. Peter's not even sure he's breathing. There's a shiver whispering through Peter's body in response to Wade's eyes on him. They just . . . _do _something to him. The tension is electrical, so much that it's hard to breathe, and Peter knows why. It's because he's done it, he's crossed that line and now things are turning into this awkward mess where neither of them knows what to say or do and the whole situation ends in Wade leaving with a forced joke and an even more forced smile, only to dissolve whatever weird relationship they have and never _ever_—

"Petey?"

Peter jolts out of the horrible scenario his mind's cooking up for tonight's aftermath with a shake of his head. "Sorry, I . . . spaced out again, didn't I?"

"You did," Wade says fondly. And then he's finally, _finally_, coming back to bed. Okay, that . . . sounds wrong, but whatever, Wade's back to sit down on Peter's bed and reaches out to run his fingers through Peter's hair. This time around, Peter does purr, and if Wade's megawatt smile is anything to go by, he likes that. A lot.

"You want me to stay?" Wade asks, shaking his head incredulously. "Why?"

Peter leans into Wade's touch, letting his eyes blink up at Wade from beneath his lashes. It's corny and maybe more than a little unfair, but now that Peter knows what it does to Wade, he plans on taking full advantage.

"Because . . . you almost died. You almost died and I . . . I don't want to be alone." He takes a deep breath. "You can take the bed, if you want? You're a lot bigger than I am, and you're still healing, so . . ." he trails off with a weak smile and a one-shoulder shrug.

Wade's eyes are brimming with _something_. They look so soft and glossy and affectionate, so warm, and Peter just wants to spend whatever's left of the night staring, wants to see what they look like when Wade's about to fall asleep, when he's laughing, when he's turned on. Would they flutter closed if Peter kissed him right now? Or would he fight to keep them open just to see what one single kiss would do to Peter?

Peter barely stifles a full-blown sigh when Wade's fingers drop from his hair to his chin, and then Wade's thumb is brushing over Peter's bottom lip and Peter can't remember what breathing is, let alone figure out the workings of it.

"You really sure?" Wade asks. "Fair warning, I jack off in the morning. Twice in a row. Loudly."

"Great. Me, too."

Wade grins. If Peter didn't know better, he'd mistake the expression on Wade's face for something like elation. And god, it suits him so well, Peter can't help but grin right back.

"God, Petey," Wade drops his head on Peter's shoulder, chapped lips rough against the tender skin of his neck. "You're killing me."

"Figuratively, maybe. Literally, quite the opposite."

Peter runs his palm over the bandages around Wade's chest before he gently nudges his shoulder.

"True," Wade relents after a heartbeat of silence. Then he strips off his shirt, leaving him only in his stupid Spider-Man themed, tight boxer briefs that leave absolutely _nothing _to the imagination. "Now, move over. I'm coming in."

Peter's still busy sputtering something along the lines of _wait a sec, I'm taking the couch _when Wade slides beneath the covers. Peter may or may not gasp when he feels Wade's bare leg line up with his. If he does, he sure as hell isn't going to admit it.

What he needs is a break so he can catch his breath and freak out over how they went from patching up to sharing a bed. The thing is, he can't. Definitely not right now, because right now, _Wade is in his bed_. There's the full effect of his body heat, which is absolutely lovely and feels even better where it's touching Peter's bare skin. And there's a lot of bare skin on skin, because Wade's not only in Peter's bed, but he's in Peter's bed naked. Okay, not like, _all the way _naked, but what difference does one tiny little pair of boxers make? Correct, none, so Wade's practically naked. In bed. With _him. _

Peter guesses this is where he kisses the idea of getting any sleep tonight goodbye.

"You're stiffer than my morning wood," Wade snickers. "What's wrong, did you pop a boner or something?"

_ Jesus Christ._

Peter wants to laugh hysterically, because yeah, he _might _have gotten a teeny, tiny bit hard over the fact that there's a huge beefcake of a man in his bed, someone who's—wow—_just _his type, someone who's Wade freaking Wilson.

"I can assure you, I did not pop a boner." Okay, so that might be bit of a lie, but it's necessary. Very necessary.

Wade rolls his eyes dramatically. "That's exactly what I hoped you would _not _say."

Peter grabs one of the little throw pillows he keeps around his bed for a semblance of decor and smacks it in Wade's face.

"Okay, I get it. I made it weird by asking you to stay. But you said yes and now we're apparently doing this, so . . . it would be much appreciated if you didn't try so damn hard to go one better on me."

Wade stills. His expression does a total one-eighty compared to a second ago. Unsuspecting souls might actually think he's serious for a change.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs softly. "I'm glad you did. Ask me to stay, that is. It's . . . unreal. The kind of unreal you usually slap on the life goals you're never going to reach and the resolutions you're never going to stick to."

Peter snorts and tugs the blanket over his bare shoulder. He's getting cold, too cold for comfort, and doesn't that make it okay to snuggle up to Wade's chest and mooch off a little bit of his delicious body heat? And if they're at it, maybe Wade could tangle his legs with Peter's and keep his toes warm along with the rest of him and—

_ Crap_.

The biggest mistake he can make here is thinking about cuddles. With how long he's been going without any, thinking would only lead to craving, and he can't allow himself to crave. Not with Wade in his bed. They are _this_ close to becoming friends, real friends, and Peter cares too much about that to blow this chance.

"We should try to get some sleep," he says. Isn't that just the best idea he's had all night?

Wade is watching him intently. Peter fights down the shiver that's tingling beneath his skin in response to these incredible hazel eyes Peter can feel on his skin like a physical touch. He has the feeling Wade wants to say something, but in the end, he just nods and closes his eyes. Peter does, too.

For all of two minutes.

He's only meant to sneak a peek. No, really. Just to see if Wade's out already. It would be weird to look only to find Wade had beaten Peter to it. And then exactly that happens. _Awkward. _

"Uh," Peter says like the eloquent genius he is.

"I thought we were supposed to try getting some sleep?" Wade asks.

He shifts under the covers and his toes brush Peter's calf. It's embarrassing how Peter isn't fast enough to swallow his moan. What's even more embarrassing is how he has to bite his tongue in order not to ask Wade to do it again.

"We are," Peter says. "It's just . . . I don't know. Having trouble sleeping lately. Don't worry about it, you just go ahead. You must be exhausted after what happened tonight."

Wade looks at him for a long, long while. There's sympathy in his pretty eyes, along with the kind of understanding that comes with going through the same thing. It's then that Peter's one hundred percent sure that Wade _knows_. That he knows everything Peter is not saying, and Peter isn't sure why it triggers such a beautiful ache inside his chest, but it's been so long since he's truly connected with someone. Someone who's right there with him, who looks beneath the mask—both the metaphorical and the literal one—and understands what it means to be a superhero, who knows all about responsibilities and sacrifices and loneliness.

Wade doesn't drop his gaze when he says, "I could . . . I mean, if it helps, I could . . . you know, hold you?"

_ God, yes_. _Please hold me._

It's on the tip of Peter's tongue, so intent on getting out that for a moment, he forgets why he's not supposed to say yes. But Wade's right there, looking so soft and comforting and alive, and if Peter's tired eyes are anything to go by, a teeny, tiny bit hopeful. And fuck, Peter wants it. He wants it so, so bad.

He bites his lip, then forces himself to meet Wade's eyes when he says, "Maybe . . . just a bit?"

There's a flicker of pure shock crossing Wade's face, as if he'd never expected that this is what Peter's going to say. Maybe he was only being half-serious about the suggestion, but now it's out there, and Peter can tell he's not the only one who wants to go through with it.

Time stops—and Peter's heart right along with it—when Wade inches closer and opens his arms in a tentative invitation.

It should be weird. There ought to be some sort of reluctance, of internal _what the hell are you doing, Peter_, but that's the thing—there is none. No sliver of doubt, no shred of _no _. So maybe slipping into Wade's arms and burying his cheek against his chest isn't supposed to feel this right, but it does.

"Woah," Wade breathes.

"Feel good?"

"God. Fuck. Yeah," he says, hugging Peter closer and leaning in to nose through his hair. "Feels so good."

Peter hums in approval. It's quiet, but with how close they are, Wade hears anyway. It's like a switch has been flipped inside Peter's brain, because where he's been uptight and on edge just a second ago, he's all languid comfort now. Sleep doesn't only feel attainable, but like something Peter wants, something he's downright yearning for, and when has _that _ever happened before?

One thing the mission of reconciling being Peter Parker and Spider-Man takes is time. Heaps of it. Anyone who knows his secret knows eight hours of sleep is just not in the cards for him. What they don't know is that Peter wants it that way. Spider-Man is infamous for being a smartass all around, so much that lots of people have told him he makes fighting crime seem almost effortless. Almost easy.

It's anything but.

And it's the nights that get to him—that always get to him—when the nightmares creep in to replay all the fights he's lost, all the people he couldn't save. It's when he wakes up screaming himself hoarse and no one there to get him through it that he realizes how alone he is.

And that's his story, that's why he'd much rather drive himself well past his breaking point than come home to an empty apartment that makes _ him _feel empty.

How long has it been that he's had someone share his bed? It's almost cruel, how good it feels. That all it takes, apparently, is Wade's arms around him and his breath in his hair, toes brushing his as if by chance. Peter swallows past the lump in his throat. There are a million thoughts wreaking havoc on his brain, but he forces them all down in favor of doing exactly what he wants to do. It works surprisingly well. He bites his lip, partly to keep from making all the sounds he's yearning to make, partly to keep himself grounded, and then he wraps his arm around Wade's hip and lets his palm travel over his side, to the small of his back—so soft that the touch is barely more than a puff of air against his broken skin.

"Is this okay?" Peter whispers.

"I wonder how it's okay for _you. _I mean . . . You're touching me," Wade breathes. "As if you actually want to."

Peter chuckles as he runs the pads of his finger along Wade's spine. The scar tissue is a little more rugged here, and Peter wonders how much he can touch Wade, how _hard _he can touch, without hurting him.

"Nobody is forcing me, you know. Which means that yes, I do actually want to." _I want to do so much more. _

Suddenly, Peter's on his back with Wade between his legs, and wow, fuck, he really shouldn't like this as much as he does, but there he is. There's a whole new range of sensations now, from the way their bodies rub against each other to the feel of Wade's body weight on top of him, pressing him into the mattress. Usually, Peter doesn't like being held down, has always hated the helplessness and submission of it, but when it's Wade, he only feels safe.

Wade's eyes are blazing, somehow even more in the dim light, his hands on the mattress to either side of Peter's head, caging him in between.

"Why?" Wade asks. It comes out on a whisper, but that's fine, Peter gets it, because he himself can't produce anything more solid than that when he replies, "What do you mean?"

"Why do you want to touch me? I mean, aren't you disgusted? Freaked out? I'm far from pretty boy material, not like—like—"

_ Like you_.

It's right there, hanging in the air between them, with much more weight than anything unspoken has the right to own. Peter's used to the self-deprecating remarks and spiteful jokes, but this is the first time Wade lets himself be vulnerable, lets Peter see past the usual bravado of ugly and proud, and Peter's heart aches for Wade, for the pain that's so obvious now that he's not trying to hide it, for every time he says he's not good enough and actually means it.

It might be the unwavering compassion that's always been ingrained in Peter's very bones, but he wants to take it all away—the insecurity and self-hate on Wade's face, the belief that he's too broken to be close to anyone in his eyes. And because actions speak louder than words, he shows him.

He reaches up to cup Wade's face, smiling when he leans into the touch despite how obviously he's trying not to, runs his thumbs over those pretty, pretty lips and down the curve of his neck and the muscles straining under his skin as if they can't get close enough.

"Look at me, Wade," he urges softly. "Do I look disgusted to you?"

Wade's eyes blink open, very slowly, and then he's gazing down at Peter, takes in the soft longing in his eyes and the warm smile on his lips.

"You don't. For some weird, totally inexplicable reason, you don't," he says, as if he can't believe he's saying what he's saying, and Peter's glad that the side of him that's all self-hate and zero self-esteem allows him see what Peter wants him to see.

But Peter doesn't only want to show him. He wants him to be right there with him, to see it for himself, _feel _it for himself.

"Do I look like I don't want _this_—" fingertips flutter over Wade's pecs, delicately brushing his nipple, "or this?" palms wander down Wade's sides, mapping out the slant of his ribs.

Instead of a reply there's a groan from Wade, long and low, eyes fluttering shut. He looks overwhelmed in the best way possible, and Peter's trembling because he knows he's the one who's doing this to him. Wade's melting against Peter's body, all soft and pliant. His forehead touches Peter's, and a moment later, they're breathing the same air. It's that moment, where Peter feels Wade's breath against his lips, that makes him want more. So much more.

He blinks up at Wade, waits until he opens his eyes again, then takes a deep breath and closes his own. It's a wordless, unmistakable invitation, and Wade gasps when he recognizes it for what it is, barely audible, but he does.

"Petey, I don't—"

"Shh," Peter whispers. "Shut up and kiss me."

There's a moment of silence in which Peter's heart is pounding so hard that he's sure Wade can feel it with how close they're pressed together. He can't tell where the sudden urge is coming from, this _need, need, need _pulsing through his body, but he wants this, wants it so much that his breath hitches in his throat when he thinks about what it would feel like to have Wade's lips on his, his tongue in his mouth, on his skin . . .

_ Please, Wade. Come on_.

Wade shifts on top of Peter, inching closer and closer and _closer_. Their lips touch just so when Wade says, "I can't believe I'm kissing you."

"Right now, you aren't," Peter says with a fake pout and a raised eyebrow, wrapping his arms around Wade's neck to gently bring him back to where he wants him. "Right now, you're talking."

Wade's smiling when he kisses Peter then, and Peter can't help but smile back. Well, at least until Wade's tongue licks the corner of his mouth and the noises start coming, the drawn-out moans and little gasps Wade's just too eager to swallow.

Goddammit, he's good at this. Not that Peter had doubts there, it's just . . . it's just that this is really, _really _good. Peter is no virgin in the kissing department by any means, but he didn't know kissing could be like this, where his toes curl and sparks go off behind his eyelids, where he's seriously questioning if breathing is all that important when he can have _this _instead. It's safe to say that Peter has never been kissed like this, like Wade is a dying man and Peter's the cure that keeps him alive.

It should have been enough. This is new to both of them after all, and Peter doesn't think he's the only one who's pretty much clueless about what it is that's happening between them right now, but—

—But damn, it's not. It's not enough.

Peter wants to be wrapped around Wade, wants to be held down, wants his hands on his waist, his teeth in his skin. He wants—god, the things he wants. Peter strives to be in control, strives to keep his cool in any given situation. He's gotten so good at it, too, but leave it to Wade to blow all that to smithereens, because control? There's no such thing as control when Wade is kissing him, when he's whispering _baby boy _against his lips, soft like a caress and insistent like a promise.

How does it feel to relinquish control for once? To not be the one everything comes down to?

Peter wouldn't know, but Wade is teaching him, with his eyes and his lips, with his fingers that must be imbued with some kind of magic, because the more Wade touches him, the more Peter wants to give him. It's unfair, how easy Wade is disarming him—the guarded poise he's acquired through years of being something between a boy and a superhero, the instincts that are honed to near-perfection. The worst thing might just be that it's exactly what Peter wants, to be disarmed by someone he trusts, someone who takes care of him without asking for anything in return. Someone who tells him it's okay to let himself fall, because he's there to catch him. Someone who's Wade.

When Peter's legs wrap around Wade's waist he can't help but notice what a perfect fit it is, and apparently Wade agrees, because he moans against Peter's lips like no tomorrow. Then he gasps when Peter tightens up enough to make them rub against each other in a way that's all delicious, all insistent. All dangerous.

"Peter, wait—"

"Pe—"

"Hey!"

Okay, so somewhere in his periphery, Peter notices Wade's trying to get his attention, obviously to say something. But talking would require them to stop kissing, and even when Peter should start acting like an adult right about now, he just can't find it in himself. It's all Wade's fault. Wade and his stupid kissing Peter can't get enough of.

After two or three more kisses, he lets Wade manhandle him in order to get their lips off each other, which . . . let's just say is not his _best_idea, because Wade and manhandling and Wade manhandling _him _does absolutely nothing to quench his thirst.

Wade's eyes are glossy, his breathing heavy and voice all but wrecked when he says, "You don't want to take this further, baby boy. Shit, I really fucking want you right now, so please," he takes a deep breath and stares into Peter's eyes, the urgency so very prominent in those pretty hazels, "don't take me to where I can't stop myself."

Peter is touched by Wade's desperate request, by the fear in his face that betrays how worried he is about Peter, about their friendship, about doing something they can't undo and every single little thing it's going to change.

"But what if I don't want you to stop?" Peter says. "What if I really fucking want you, too?"

Wade attempts a cocky smile, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "Then I'd like to revisit the possibility of you suffering from a very serious concussion due to that giant of a thug backhanding you last night. Don't you just love me now for knocking him out for that one? And how much, on a scale of one to eleven?"

"Wade!" Peter whines. "Be serious." He adds a quiet "please", too.

Wade leans down to kiss Peter's forehead, and Peter thinks he's doing it to hide the sad smile on his lips, but Peter sees it. And feels it. Like a flesh wound.

"Then . . ." Wade says slowly. "I'd tell you that you deserve so much better than me. _So _much better. Since you obviously don't know that."

_ Bullshit_.

Peter flips them over so that he's on top of Wade, his eyes stinging with determination. He takes a hold of Wade's hands and places them on his face, across his chest, down his body. He needs Wade to realize how serious he is, and how much he wants Wade to see that. Because Wade _is_good, and no brand of crazy or amount of scarring makes a difference. Peter blushes when he does it, but he won't be deterred by anything—especially not something like nerves—so he doesn't even hesitate when he reaches for Wade's hands and puts them on the swell of his ass.

"I've seen you properly for the first time today, and instead of wanting to run the other way, I just _want_. You hear me? I want _you, _Wade. I just have to figure out a way to make you believe me."

Yeah, it's not exactly fair game, but Peter rolls his hips against Wade and moans softly when he meets undeniable hardness between his legs.

Wade's falling, Peter can feel it. He just doesn't know it yet.

"Peter, you . . . you don't know what you're saying. You've been pushing yourself too hard lately. You're confused and tired and on edge and you—"

"—have never been more sure than I am right now," Peter says as he lies down on top of Wade, covering him like a blanket, and of course—as if it was ever up for debate—his cock lines up with Wade's as if they were made to fit together, just like this.

And now Peter's the one who's falling.


	3. Hold onto Me

It happens so fast. Within the blink of an eye really, that Peter finds himself pinned under Wade, under all that freaking sublime body weight, Wade's hands all but wrenching off his underwear. Peter is barely hanging on at this point, so he's glad for Wade taking control. Or maybe glad is not the right word for how he feels about Wade taking control. Maybe turned on beyond recovery is more like it.

"Wade," he moans, one hundred percent not caring about how needy he sounds, and damn, he really _does _sound needy. He runs his nails down Wade's muscular back while he's busy mouthing at Peter's neck, sucking angry bruises along his jugular, and bunches the fabric of Wade's boxers in his hands.

Gosh, he wants them gone, like, yesterday.

"You want me naked, baby boy?" Wade whispers into his ear, his tongue dragging across his lobe and eliciting a heartfelt moan that would've been beyond embarrassing in different circumstances.

"God, yes," Peter pants. He's _panting, _as if he's so freaking turned on he can barely put two and two together, and wait, isn't that exactly what he is?

Wade's trying to get his own underwear off, his very _tight _underwear, which doesn't exactly make it an easy feat. He's wiggling on top of Peter, and Peter's laughing as if he's drunk, as if he's high. He might just be. High on Wade, that sounds about right. This night, this moment, _Wade_—fuck, he just really wants this so goddamned much that he's struggling with the fact that this is, in fact, real. Real and happening to him. That it looks like he's blessed by getting what he wants for once, without sacrificing anything for it.

Peter shuffles closer to Wade and grabs his arm, partly because he's dying to feel him, partly because he's running the serious risk of straight out floating off this planet. The fact that Wade's still struggling with his gorgeous undies has Peter laughing again, and he's still laughing when he playfully pushes Wade off the bed. Too bad he manages to stand without tumbling over. Wade's laughing too, his thumbs hooked into his boxers, hips swaying in a way that's too damn seductive for his own good. He's all muscles, all hard edges and bulging power. Just looking at him feels like a reward.

"Wait," Peter says, making grabby hands at Wade. "I want to."

"You want to what, baby boy?"

The flirty smirk on Wade's lips is almost enough to bring Peter to his knees, and not even the metaphorical ones. He reaches for Wade, but the little brat twists just outside of where he can touch him.

"You know," Peter says, fixing hungry eyes on Wade. Or maybe it's the bulge straining against those Spidey boxer briefs he can't stop staring at. For some reason, he's really loving the boxers now. "I can see how fucking hard you are in those boxers. Why don't you stop sashaying around and come here so I can check out that impressive bulge?"

"Well, you damn well know my bulge takes the cake in the treat department, so if you wanna take a look? I'm thinking you gotta earn it."

There's a challenge in Wade's voice, a come get me in his eyes. And Peter wants to, wants to get him more than he wants his next breath.

Slowly, he moves to the edge of the bed, never taking his eyes off Wade, who's moving further and further away. Out of where Peter can catch him. Peter guesses he's serious about the part where he has to earn it. Which is perfect, because he's planning on collecting Wade just like the prize he is.

"You know you can't exactly run from me, don't you?" he says softly. His Spidey sense is all amped up and zeroed in on Wade, who's smiling this damn gorgeous trademark cocky smile of his that makes Peter want to wrap him up in webs and pull him back to where he can kiss it right off his lips.

"I've always been one for attempting the impossible," Wade says, wiggling his eyebrows.

He turns around and runs. It's not nearly as fast as usual with him still healing and Peter's apartment being as small as it is, but the rush of adrenaline at the chase is the same. Instead of bolting after Wade, Peter takes to the ceiling. He can hear Wade giggling close by, and damn if he doesn't have to stifle a chuckle of his own at what must be the most adorable sound in the world. Peter closes his eyes and focuses on Wade's body just around the corner, the beating of his heart, the breathing that comes on little puffs and tiny giggles. The palpable arousal that's pinging off Peter's own and amplifying it tenfold in the process. The chase is exciting, but this is Wade he's chasing and that means there's a limit to Peter's willingness to play games. When he rounds the corner, Wade tries to take off once more, but Peter shoots a string of webbing around his ankles, effectively breaking his stride. He drops to the floor just in time to catch Wade in his arms. Princess-style, too, because Peter knows how much Wade's into that.

Wade squeals and wraps his arms around Peter's neck. Then he presses a soft kiss to Peter's cheek that, compared to the way they've kissed before, shouldn't leave him reeling like it does.

"I love when you carry me around," Wade sighs.

It triggers all the memories of Peter carrying Wade, sometimes for fun, usually when he's too beat up to stand on his own. He's not too beat up right now, though. No, right now, he just wants to be carried, what with the way he's burying his face in Peter's neck and sighing with obvious contentment.

Peter snorts. "Spoiled much?"

"Hey, I can't help it! Not when you're doing all these nice things for me, like patch me up and carry me around and kiss me. God, you _kissed _me, Petey. What did you expect? Me getting all spoiled is on you."

Peter tries to purse his lips in a display of mock indignation, but that plan is hopelessly thwarted by the smile that just refuses to stay down.

"And knowing all that—how odd is it that I want to do it again, right?"

Wade's eyes all but pop out of his head. Peter notes that they are still beautiful, even in their bugged out state. And there Peter goes again, being all distracted by that lovely hazel, so much that he'd have almost missed the fact that Wade is quiet.

He is quiet. Wade.

Something is obviously very, very wrong here, because ten times out of ten, Wade's got something to say. He just doesn't do silent.

It's a good thing that Peter's reached the bed by this point, because he can lie Wade down and crawl on top of him to take a good look and find out what's gotten into him.

Wade has gone from shocked gawking to quiet watching, as if he's trying his damned hardest to find something in Peter's face without really knowing what to look for.

"So the idea of me kissing you is what it takes to make you shut up? I don't know if I'm flattered or hurt."

"No, Petey, I . . ." Wade crunches his eyebrows in a way that's way too adorable to be on a universally feared mercenary's face. "I guess I'm just trying to figure out the joke in there. Because believing that you want to kiss me, _again__?_ Just nope."

Just listening to Wade talking about kissing makes Peter want to do it all over again.

He presses a gentle kiss to Wade's lips, just a tiny little thing, before he looks into his eyes and whispers, "Believe it."

If Peter's not mistaken—and he could be considering Wade just put his hands on Peter's ass and the fit is A Plus—that's an honest-to-god growl coming from Wade's throat in response. God, that fucking growl.

Peter never knew anything along the lines of primal could be such a major turn on for him, but it is. It really, really is. Or maybe that's just Wade, because Peter's starting to think anything he does is a turn on. He wishes he knew what has happened between rolling his eyes over Wade treating Peter like his personal nurse and being utterly gone on Wade wearing Spider-Man boxers, just so he can put a finger on the big-ass _why_.

Why Wade's so fucking sexy that Peter wants and wants and wants.

Why Wade's lips feel better than the air he breathes.

Why it took Peter so long to see how good Wade is, how right.

It's funny, really, because if someone had told Peter that this is what Wade's regular drivebys would lead to, he'd have laughed straight in their face. Or straight-out decked them. Whereas now, all he does is wonder how he could've been so blind. But okay, blind in all things romance, that's him—what matters is that he's not blind any longer. He's all in, eyes wide open, and he wants this. He wants Wade. Every little piece of him.

His lips are still pressed to Wade's, tongue licking into his mouth as he spreads Wade's legs with both of his. There's a firework of color and taste and feeling going off in his body when their cocks line up in a way that takes Peter's breath away, along with all his inhibitions. The ones that are left at this point, anyway, and there aren't many of them.

He's kissing his way down Wade's throat, fingernails scratching along the bulge of his bicep and the inside of his wrist. His skin is rough and broken, but to Peter, it's so touchable, so irresistible_,_ so much that he can barely go two seconds without touching any part of it.

"I caught you," he whispers into the curve of Wade's neck. "Which, in my book, means you're mine now."

Wade groans, his hands settling on Peter's waist, thumbs rubbing soft circles into his hip bones. "Yours. That sounds damn good to me."

Peter chuckles as he runs his nose along Wade's shoulder. He wants to say something else, but there's nothing that comes to mind, so maybe this is where he walks the talk.

The pads of his fingers dance across Wade's skin, lower and lower and lower, until they meet the waistband of his ridiculously cute boxers and tug them down slow enough to give Wade a chance to back out. And backing out is apparently exactly what he plans to do, because his hand wraps around Peter's wrist, preventing him from taking this any further. If it wouldn't have killed the mood, Peter would have groaned in frustration. Getting acquainted with the concept of edging while there's a man like Wade under him freaking sucks.

"Let me?" Peter whispers, meeting Wade's gaze head on. He's not going to back down. Wade deserves to see how desirable he is, how loveable, and no amount of Wade's self-doubts or Peter's understanding of them is going to mess with that plan.

"Pete, you . . . I can't. I can't let you," Wade says. His voice couldn't sound more torn if he tried. "Whenever I sleep with someone, they regret it. Usually, before the night is through. And I'm used to that, it's okay. It's fine. I deal. But you? You're different, Petey. Waking up to you looking at me like I'm the worst mistake you've ever made, there's no way I can deal with that. Do I want you? Fuck, yes. _Yes_. Y'know, I used to think what I really wanted was revenge on the guy who turned me into this mess, but then I meet you being everything that's right and good in the world and suddenly revenge doesn't matter anymore, because _you _matter. Because you are the only thing making my miserable life a little less miserable, and I . . . I need that, Petey. I need you to be here. With me."

And Peter—

—kisses him. Again and again and again, before he reminds himself Wade's just given up a piece of himself Peter's never seen before, never even knew existed, without the jokes and the sex and the self-deprecation, and that he's supposed to say something to let him know how much this means.

"Wade," another kiss, "I'll never regret," and another one, "taking this step. Not when it's with you."

Wade's looking at him, so intense and wide-eyed and hopeful that Peter has to fight off the urge to kiss him again. "And I will be here with you. I will—No, hey, look at me."

He turns Wade's face back from where he's been trying to mash it into the pillow to conceal his expression. Or maybe it's the wetness in his eyes he wants to hide. Peter kisses the corner of his eye before he pulls back and looks at Wade. It feels like the promise it's meant to be when he says, "I will be here."

Something inside Wade gives after that. Suddenly, he's not being hesitant anymore, or insecure, or feeling as if he's not enough. Suddenly, he's impatient and fierce and avid for touch, for taste, for every inch of Peter he can get his hands, his lips, his skin on. Peter doesn't know when or how it happens, but he ends up back under Wade, his hard body keeping him pinned to the mattress while his hands roam over Peter's body and dig into his skin. Just when Wade takes off Peter's underwear, his lips brush over a nipple and Peter cries out and bucks off the bed hard enough to take Wade with him.

"Mh, you like that, huh? Like when I do this?" He flicks the pink nub with the very tip of his tongue once, and what do you know, it's all it takes to make it perk up all pink and tight.

"Jesus, Pete," Wade groans helplessly. "I can't believe how responsive you are . . . makes me want to tease you, see how far I can go. How far _you _can go."

When his lips close around Peter's other nipple, Peter whines and thrashes, even while his hands cup the back of Wade's head to keep his mouth as close to his chest as physically possible.

"Oh god, Wade," he groans. Wade's biting at his nipples now, and that feels so fucking good that Peter's eyes keep fluttering shut, no matter how bad he wants to watch Wade, wants to see every stroke of that gorgeous tongue across his flushed skin. When Wade finally pulls off a few long moments later, Peter's panting through parted lips, his cock so hard that it's borderline painful, and fuck, he's so wet. Wade's tongue is an honest-to-god gift. It is.

Wade kisses his way down Peter's body, his hazel eyes looking up at him in between every second and third kiss, to make sure they are still on the same page here. Peter spreads his legs to prove that from his end, they very much are.

"I didn't think it was going to get much better than the Spidey suit on you. Turns out I was wrong. Shit, Petey, how gorgeous can you be?"

Wade runs a finger from Peter's chest to his thigh, and Peter blushes all the way to the tips of his ears. Sure, Wade's called him gorgeous (and hot stuff and candy cane and sex on Spandex legs), but never like this, where his eyes are adoring and reverent, where there's nothing but honesty in his pretty voice. It's different, and they both know it is.

"Wade?"

"Hm?" Wade hums against the inside of Peter's thigh, where his lips are in the process of kissing a slow trail up to his loin. He's getting dangerously close to where Peter wants him. This slow burn is driving Peter half-crazy with want, and he realizes that under all that want, he barely gets enough emotional space to be nervous. He_should _be nervous, right? This is kind of really new to him after all. Anything sexual has always been just functional to him, without any real feelings involved, and Christ, surely nothing like the feelings he's experiencing right now. The thing is, he's not. No bout of nerves in sight, except for the nervous energy that's screaming "take, take, take". There's nothing holding him back. And if there's nothing, how wrong can this be?

He sighs a breathy sigh. Then, "Fuck me, Wade. I need you, _please_."

Wade's eyes are doing their bugging out thing again. Maybe he didn't think Peter was as serious as he is. Maybe he didn't expect he would have the nerve to ask for it like he has.

"Please, Wade. Come on."

Peter can see that Wade wants to say something, but he ends up swallowing it down. His eyes go back to soft heat, and he's smiling as if Peter hung the moon.

Then he grabs Peter's hand and places it on his arm. "Pinch me."

"What?"

"Pinch me. This can't be real. I mean, not that you kissing me or you letting me lick your nipples can be real, but you asking me to—to do that? With you? Yeah, no. As long as I haven't died and gone to an alternate reality dubbed 'Wade Wilson's personal heaven', that's freaking impossible."

Peter is smiling, too, when he lets his fingers wander down across Wade's rock-hard abs, then lower until his palm is a mere inch away from his rock-hard dick. Wade gasps when Peter closes his fingers around his length and gives it a nice, hard squeeze. Emphasis on the hard part, because it's a little _too _hard to be enjoyable, but hey, that's exactly what he's going for.

"What do you say, is one pinch gonna be enough?" he asks slyly, eyes burning with a mix of arousal and challenge. "Or do you need another?"

"God, Petey," Wade all but wheezes, "At this rate, I might need you to pinch me six ways to Sunday."

"You've come to the right guy, then. Rumor has it my muscle power borders on superhuman."

Wade gapes at him, then spurts and starts laughing. Peter's never seen him laugh before, not like this and not with the mask off, and it's so mesmerizing that Peter can't help but lean in and kiss him through it, Wade's laughs a warm, affectionate echo in his mouth.

When he finally stops laughing a minute later, his arms are curled around Peter and his lips press tender kisses into his neck. Peter wasn't aware that his neck is such a sweet spot for him, but trust Wade to make it one.

"Petey," he whispers into his skin, "I adore you."

"How much?"

"_So _much," Wade replies.

"I don't believe you," Peter teases, shoving his shoulder playfully into Wade's.

Wade pulls back with an expression shock on his face, a little too genuine to be play pretend. "How do I prove it to you?"

"Showing me would be a great start."

Wade swallows. Peter does, too. And then he nods. "I'm going to take care of you, baby boy."

Peter's heart is beating up a storm inside his chest.

Finally.

For the better part of the night—maybe much, much longer than that—he's wanted Wade, has wanted to feel him, to make him his. And now, Wade's right there with him.

Thankfully, Wade doesn't give him enough time to have a major freak out about that, because he's getting up to kneel between Peter's spread legs, and the view is so damn good that Peter can't do much else besides stare. Okay, clearly, he's been rash with that assumption, because then Wade's curling his large hands around Peter's hips and pulling his ass up on his thighs. But he doesn't stop there. He keeps pulling and pulling until, oh, Jesus Christ, he's eye level with Peter's ass cheeks.

Peter's about a millisecond away from blinking out of existence from sheer anticipation and desire, but Wade ups the ante. He gives Peter a cheeky smirk before he whispers "Bon appetit" and digs in.

The first puff of moist breath against his hole has Peter's hands fly to his mouth in an attempt to stifle his scream.

The first stroke of that velvety tongue that comes right after, however, proves his hands alone are far from enough to make him stop screaming.

Geez, he prays the neighbors will cut him some slack, because at this rate? The entire complex is going to hear him scream himself hoarse before the night is through.

Wade obviously doesn't give a damn. If anything, he's doing his goddamned best to wring every last sound out of Peter, and boy, it should be illegal how good he is at it. And then there's Peter, still struggling with the part where he realizes all of this is really happening, because Wade is eating him out, here, in Peter's crappy IKEA full bed with the comic sheets that are older than dirt. It's surreal.

And then there's Wade groaning, "You taste fucking amazing," against the sensitive skin at Peter's entrance, fingers digging into his cheeks to keep them open, and that's how Peter knows. Not only because it feels so much better than any dream could make it out to be, but because Wade's voice right now—gruff, wrecked, _beautiful_—sounds too damn perfect to be made of make-believe. Peter's brain might be good, but no way it's _that _good. A moment later, Wade breaches Peter with the tip of his tongue, licking inside _, _and all rational thought Peter may or may not have left at this point flies straight out the window.

Good god. How does this feel so good? How does _Wade _make it feel so good, as if he knows all of Peter's buttons and has absolutely no qualms about pushing them all at once?

"Wade," Peter moans, his hips canting up without his permission to get Wade deeper_. _"That's . . . _fuck, _that's incredible."

A breathy sigh, a little whine, and then, "_Wade." _

Wade only hums against the soft, wet skin around Peter's hole, revving the sensitivity up to off the fucking charts. Just when Peter thinks he's going to come, Wade's glorious tongue is gone and he's gazing at Peter through his spread legs, lips wet and swollen. It's so intimate, Wade looking at him while he's all but spread out for him like a live buffet, Peter should feel the urge to look away, but he is not. Not when the sight he's getting for it is the very definition of irresistible.

Speaking, however, that's a different thing entirely.

"Mmmh, _ah, _ungh . . ."

Wade smiles at him, and if Peter wasn't sure about how to produce words earlier, it's nothing in comparison to now. Wade's smile slips into a smirk, and Peter barely has time to wonder why it looks so diabolic, before Wade's pressing a long, thick finger into him, making Peter shout another string of unintelligible shit.

"What's that, baby boy?" he grins. "You tryin' to say something?"

Peter's hands are fisting in the sheets, his entire body wanting to curl up tight. He's so gone on Wade, so gone on his touch, his lips, everything he says and does.

Wade's nuzzling Peter's balls while he fingers him open, slow and deliberate. Peter wants to scream. His healing factor might be spectacular, but he's sure the serious case of blue balls he's heading for will turn out to be the one thing driving it to its knees.

"You're so tight, Pete, god. I can't wait to be inside you, feel your tight little ass squeeze all around me. You have no idea how long I've been dreaming about spreading you open to sink myself into all that perky glory."

"Wade," Peter moans in response. The mental image Wade is painting, Peter _wants _it. "Please. I . . . fuck me. _Please, _I want you so much. Wanna feel you."

"Oh, baby. If you keep begging me, I'll blow before I get the chance to give you the sweet fucking you deserve," Wade says just as he presses a third finger into Peter. Aside from a slight sting, there's no pain. Wade's sucked and fingered him open so good that all he feels at this point is the need to have Wade inside of him, thrusting in and out while those gorgeous hazel eyes are fixed on his.

Finally, Wade removes his fingers and . . . licks them. He sucks them clean, all the way from root to tip, as if it's his favorite treat. Peter's reduced to a staring, bumbling mess once again. Weird fact about Peter: he's always been strangely fascinated by watching Wade eat, how he takes bites that are too big and chews loudly before he licks leftover sauce from his lush bottom lip. But this? This is a different level of savoring the meal.

"God, the way you _taste, _Peter, I swear . . . you're fucking killing me, it's so good," Wade breathes. With his wet fingers, he reaches down and grabs his cock, giving himself a few shallow tugs.

Peter fishes the lube and a condom from the drawer in his nightstand and smacks it against Wade's chest. "Come on. You need this as much as I do, I can see it."

Yeah, he can see it, alright. A dead giveaway might be the fat head of Wade's cock, which is turning a pretty shade of purple.

Wade uncaps the lube and squeezes a liberal amount on his fingers before he lathers Peter's hole up enough to have drops drip down his crease and soak into the bedsheets.

"Turn around."

"No," Peter says. "I want it like this. I want to see you. Every second of it."

Wade's eyes close briefly. When he opens them again, they are soft and wet. He runs his fingers across Peter's cheek, whispering, "Damn, Pete. Stop making me like you more than I already do."

Peter smiles shyly and makes grabby hands at Wade. "Come here."

Peter watches as Wade rips the condom open with his teeth and rolls it on. Then he leans down to cover Peter's body with his own, like a blanket, soft and warm and secure. Peter's breath hitches when he feels the blunt tip of Wade's cock nudge his hole. He admonishes himself to keep his eyes open as Wade pushes inside, but they are fluttering shut on the first exquisite drag of Wade's dick inside him. There are tears in his eyes when Wade slides deeper, he's just _so fucking huge_—

"Peter," Wade whispers against his lips, "You feel okay?"

"Better than. Keep going, please, you feel . . . you feel amazing, so fucking good, _please_ . . . don't stop."

He wraps his arms around Wade's neck and pushes his tongue between Wade's lips, licking into his mouth and panting softly because it's been too long that he's gone without kissing him. Wade's moving inside him, agonizingly slow and so tender that Peter's ankles lock around his waist to get him closer, deeper, _more_.

"Harder," he groans, blushing like crazy while he does. "I got a healing factor, you gotta work hard to leave your mark on me. And that's what you want, don't you? Mark me up, make me yours?"

Bingo, there it is, Wade's growling. Fuck, he's so hot, now even more that he sits back on his heels and pulls Peter's ass on his lap, his hands gripping him hard enough to bruise. Peter's nails alternate between digging into his thighs and scratching down his back when he leans in for a second to shove his gorgeous tongue down Peter's throat for a sloppy kiss. It's perfect. So perfect that when Wade changes his angle to nail that spot inside Peter that makes his toes curl into the sheets and stars dance across his vision and he feels his orgasm coiling inside of him like a living thing, he doesn't want it to pull him under. He's on the edge here, all but losing his mind with the need to come, and yet still, he'd much rather hold onto this, maybe forever. Because if he doesn't, this is it. It's over, and god, for some reason he really doesn't want it to be over.

"God, Peter," Wade pants into his neck, "You're getting so tight, fuck—are you going to let go for me, baby? Come on, do it, let go. Lemme feel you come around me."

Of course Wade's doing the only thing Peter can't refuse—he's asking for it, with this wrecked voice of his that's betraying how close he is, how he's barely hanging on.

All Peter can do is whisper, _"Wade" _and soak up Wade's whisper of _"I'm here, baby" _in return, and then his orgasm crashes into him, hard enough to kick him off course, and he hears himself scream as Wade fucks him through it, so slow, so fucking _soft, _that Peter knows there's no way this isn't going to change him. It's already happening.

Every last fiber of his body clenches around Wade, from his arms around his neck and his legs around his waist to his ass around his cock, and then it's Wade who's shuddering all over, who's panting Peter's name into his neck and digging his nails into his thighs as he comes into the condom.

And Peter almost comes again, because his name on Wade's lips, it's incredible. It's a long time before the stars fade out of Peter's vision and he feels like he maybe could make words if he wanted to, and that's a very big if_. _

Wade's lying on top of him, nestled in between his spread legs, which are still wrapped loosely around his waist. He's breathing against Peter's skin as he comes down from the high. After a while, he turns his head and gives Peter a shit-eating grin.

Peter runs his fingers over Wade's head. "Isn't an afterglow face supposed to look, I don't know, blissed out or something? Yours looks kinda scary."

Wade giggles. "Shut up, Webs. It's better than your O-face."

Peter raises both eyebrows. "No, it's not."

"Duh," Wade says with an eye-roll, "That's because nothing in this world is better than your O-face, baby boy. It's been a theory up until now, but after tonight I can confirm it's the indubitable truth."

He says it as if it's the most obvious thing ever. Peter blushes and gently flicks one of Wade's earlobes. "Shut up. I can't believe you've been picturing what my O-face looks like. That's weird. And hot. Kinda."

Wade chuckles as he lays his cheek on Peter's chest and runs his fingertips along his ab muscles. "It's even better than the weird-hot combo, which is my favorite, by the way." Wade sighs dreamily. "Fuck, now I really want your O-face again."

Peter's spent dick twitches at the thought of Wade giving him yet another spectacular orgasm (and the O-face to match), but he's too tired to do anything about it. Wade understands with a mere glance at Peter's sprawled out limbs and afterglow-y face. He presses a gentle kiss to Peter's lips and smiles when Peter purrs softly in response. He is already half asleep when Wade gets up and returns with a warm washcloth a moment later to clean them both up.

"Mmmh, thank you."

Wade leans in and brushes a few locks of Peter's hair away from his forehead before he kisses it. Then there are those moments after that feel like an eternity, but are most likely nothing more than a few seconds, in which Peter is alone in his bed. He holds his breath and clutches the bedsheet. If Wade wanted to leave, he wouldn't stop him.

Several frantic heartbeats later, Wade slips under the covers and wraps his arms around Peter, pulling him into his chest and tucking his nose and that gorgeous set of lips against the back of his neck.

The relieved sigh is out before Peter can stop it. He's not even sure he'd have wanted to.

"Sweet dreams, Petey pie," Wade whispers, lips brushing Peter's hairline and eliciting another languorous shiver in the process.

"Night, Wade," Peter says around a yawn while he snuggles back against Wade. As an afterthought that's too foolish to bring up but too insistent to ignore, he quietly adds, "Don't leave, okay?"

Wade just holds him a little tighter.


End file.
